Imitation Is the Sincerest Form of Flattery
by emelierose
Summary: Sherlock's made a mess and Hamish gets bored. Cuteness ensues.


Sherlock stopped himself just inside the front door of 221 and took a deep breath. The case had not gone how he had hoped. Not only had the culprit died, but the victim's future didn't look too bright either. But he had solved it and all he wanted was some sleep. Well, what Sherlock really wanted was to break something and then sulk around for the next few days, but breaking things had been forbidden when Hamish was born and sulking just wasn't as much fun when there was a cute little two year old trying to copy one's every move. So sleep would have to do.

Sherlock glanced at his watch and silently congratulated himself on not being disruptive. He did not need another lecture on interrupting naps. Quickly he made his way up the staircase, shedding his coat and scarf as he went. He stepped into the sitting room and let his outerwear pile on the floor. He might not get away with breaking things but that doesn't mean he can't be a bit petulant when things go awry.

Ignoring John's greeting, Sherlock flopped onto the couch and curled himself into a worn out ball of consulting detective. In the kitchen John rolled his eyes, a slight smile creeping onto his lips, and turned back the lasagne he was making for dinner. He knew that both Sherlock and Hamish would be hungry when they woke up. For now he was content to let his partner pretend to throw a fit while getting some of the rest he desperately needed.

* * *

About a half an hour later, when the lasagne was almost done baking, John heard soft footsteps coming down from the upstairs bedroom. John looked at the clock on the microwave and raised an eyebrow.

"Since when do you take such long naps?" He asked as he turned to his son. Hamish just shrugged, one hand dragging sleepily over his eyes, the other reaching up. John picked up the two year old and kissed his forehead.

"Do you want to help?" Hamish nodded, not ready to talk so soon after waking. "Alright, you get to sprinkle the cheese on top." Hamish reached for the block of cheese, but John pulled him back. "Hold on there, Squirt, I have to shred it first. Do you want to play until it's ready?" Hamish just squirmed to signal his assent, his thumb having gravitated to his mouth and stopping a verbal answer. John gently pulled it away. "I thought we stopped that, H."

"Oh ya." Hamish looked at his thumb as if he wasn't sure how it got there. John just chuckled and set him down.

"I'll come get you when I need your help. And try not to wake your father; he can play with you later." Hamish went into the other room and was soon building an impressive block tower. He hoped that his parents would later let him put his father's skull on the top to complete it.

But just like Sherlock, Hamish was prone to boredom and soon the blocks held his interest no more. Quietly he surveyed the room and his eyes rested on Sherlock's violin. He knew better than to touch that without help. And he couldn't get help without waking up his father. So a violin lesson was out.

Hamish's eyes roved around again and came to rest on the heap that was Sherlock's coat. He had never been told not to touch his father's clothes and he couldn't think of any harm that could come of it. The toddler walked over to it and pulled the scarf from in its folds. Hamish rubbed his cheek against the fabric. It was like when his father held him when he got too tired to walk. Soft and comfortable, smelling of love and protection. Hamish slipped it around his neck and smiled. His father hardly ever went on a case without this scarf; maybe it was why he solved them all. And now that Hamish wore it, maybe he was just as smart as father. But then again, maybe it was the coat. Hamish pulled on the heavy material and wiggled his little arms into the long sleeves.

Hearing a noise, Hamish looked towards the kitchen. His dad stood watching him, but he was smiling, so Hamish didn't think he was in trouble for wearing the coat.

"Would you like to help with the cheese or would you like to wake up your father?" John inquired.

"Fa."

"Alright. Dinner's ready when you two are."

Hamish nodded and trudged to the couch (it's hard to do anything but trudge when one so small is wearing a coat so large). When he reached it, he patted his father's arm, cuff flopping softly on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Fa!" Hamish said. "Fa, way uh!" Sherlock stirred slightly, yet Hamish knew he was still fast asleep. But this little boy hadn't learned nothing during his two years with his dads. He thought for a moment and then repeated something his father often said when something important was happening (and food is pretty important to a two year old who hasn't eaten since before nap time).

"Duh game ih on!" Sherlock immediately opened his eyes. He blinked blearily, trying to concentrate. "What game, I just solved the case."

"No game, Sher," John interjected from the kitchen, "I believe he meant dinner. Dinner is on."

"Oh." Sherlock sat up, stretching, and finally realised what his son was wearing. "And where did you get that, little one?" He smiled and gently ruffled Hamish's curls.

"Flo."

"I did leave it on the floor, didn't I?" Hamish nodded. "Well you look very dashing in it. We might have to get you one of your own." Hamish's face broke into a wide grin.

"And scar?"

"And a scarf."


End file.
